


Lessons in Wilderness Survival

by missmagoo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blowjobs, Camping, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Outdoor Sex, Wolfed Out Sex, discussion of knotting, handjobs, no actual knotting occurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 13:28:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmagoo/pseuds/missmagoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh my god,” Stiles says with slightly awed amusement, “you’re afraid of thunder storms!”</p><p>AKA Camping Porn</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons in Wilderness Survival

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the prompt:  
> Fic war: Sterek camping when a surprise thunderstorm hits. It's too much for Derek's senses, but they hiked all day to get to their spot so they can't leave.
> 
> Tweaked a bit to fit the Muses' whims

"It smells like a storm is coming, Stiles." Derek informed him as they drove up the dirt road of the preserve. Stiles scoffed.

"The weather report said clear skies for the next three days. There wasn’t a storm front anywhere near us on the weather map. I checked." Stiles assures him, "Twice."

"I’m not usually wrong about this stuff, Stiles." Derek tries to argue, "It’s not just scent. There’s a faint crackling in the air, too, that normally means a thunderstorm."

"Do your wolfy senses have a degree in meteorology?" Stiles demands, "Because Weather.com does! And it say no-stormy!"

"Oh, ok." Grumbles Derek sarcastically, "Believe everything you read on the internet. It’s all true, right? You have never come across mis-information in your internet research ever before."

"I thought we agreed never to talk about that time!" Stiles hisses, flushing as he concentrates on the road. The sun is getting low, so they have to hurry if they want any light when they set up camp.

"Which time?" Derek counters, "The time you asked me if werewolves give birth to puppies? The time you asked if vampires were real? The time you asked me if my  _penis_  has a  _knot!_ ”

"I - ok, in fairness, you never did get back to me on what happens if you’re shifted when you come." Stiles tells him, mostly to watch the way Derek’s face spasms.

"I am not  _actually_  a dog, Stiles. I do. not. have. a  _knot!_ " Derek grits out. "And there will be no shifted experimentation, because in no universe am I willing to put my claws anywhere near my junk. Stop reading about that fucking xanadu porn on the internet."

"Xeno porn," Stiles corrects, and he’s grinning like he’s won something, "So you don’t actually  _know - “_

 _"I know my fucking body, Stiles!"_ Derek yells, “and I  _don’t have a knot!”_ _  
_

They park the car where the road ends, fading into hiking paths that lead in all directions. Stiles tosses Derek his pack, and shoulders his own before heading toward the sign labeled “Beacon Peak Path: See the highest point in Beacon Hills!” in fading, chipped letters. 

"Come on, Sourwolf, we’re loosing light!" he calls, and Derek grumbles behind him, "I just don’t know why we had to do this  _tonight!_ ”

"Because, according to Deaton, tonight is a once-in-a-bajillion-or-something-years opportunity for this protection spell to work." Stiles tells him, again. "The spell needs to be cast on the new moon, and it can gain power from the luck of shooting stars. And  _tonight_ , my wolfy friend, there is a meteor shower, which should add enough power to the spell for me to protect the whole town instead of, you know, just somebody’s house.”

 Derek grunts, annoyed because that’s actually a pretty good reason.

“Besides, Mister Grumpy Wolf, you’re the one who insisted that I needed to bring along a big, strong wolf to protect me.” Stiles shouts, darting up the path ahead of him, “I’d have been perfectly happy to do this on my own!”

They get to the peak in a little over fifteen minutes of hiking, less than half of the trail map’s estimated 40 minutes. Derek’s not surprised, really. Fully shifted, he could have done it in about 5, but Stiles has been conditioning himself to run with the pack for years, now, and is much more physically capable than the stringy 16 year old bench-warmer that Derek had met in the woods.

He’s graduating in a few months, along with most of the pack, all of them heading off to different colleges. It’s had Stiles on a bit of a protection spell kick lately, learning what he can from Deaton then teaching himself more from both Hale and Argent resources, plus his own research.

There’s a campsite in the clearing up here – just a crude fire pit and a shabby looking lean-to. Stiles dumps his pack and stares up at the sky, considering. “It’s a little overcast,” he tells Derek, “but I think we should be fine for the spell.”

Derek sets up camp while Stiles sets up his spell. Apparently, real magic is more about using artifacts to channel power than about waiving your arms and saying a bunch of made up words, and in all honesty, Derek really tries not to get too involved with it.

They roast hot dogs over the fire with sticks, eating them half-charred/half-cold on squished buns. “Why are we eating this?” Derek asks, making a face at his hot dog. They could have brought takeout or sandwiches or something. This is disgusting. “Camping tradition!” Stiles answers, grinning around a full mouth, “Here, put some more ketchup on it, it’ll be fine,” as he reaches across to hand Derek the plastic bottle.

They sit in companionable quiet, or as close to quiet as it ever gets with Stiles, until after a while Derek looks over to see Stiles squinting up at the sky again.

“I hope the cloud cover doesn’t mess with the spell,” Stiles says.

“I hope the storm holds off until you’re finished,” Derek replies, half to be a jerk and half because it’s true.

Stiles throws a marshmallow at his face. “Stop bringing your negative energy to the campsite,” he scolds, “it’s not going to rain.” He stands up and dusts off his jeans, and wanders over to the ritual area he set up earlier. The meteors had started showing up sporadically a few minutes ago, which apparently meant that now was as good a time as any to start. Derek watches him for a few moments, barely making out his shape in the firelight, as he scratches runes in the dirt and chants in some language Derek doesn’t recognize, though he’s sure Lydia would. He wonders how Stiles can see what he’s doing in the dark, with not even a wolf’s vision to aid him, before he remembers watching Stiles practice magic before, his eyes always tightly shut. 

Derek shifts his gaze skyward to where the meteors are starting to fall faster. Some flash dully behind the clouds, and others streak brightly through patches of open sky. It’s beautiful, Derek thinks, more so for the darkness of the new moon. In the distance, he can see lights from Beacon Hills down below them, but their town is small enough that the night sky doesn’t have the light pollution he remembers from New York.

Stiles has been working for a few minutes when Derek feels a wet plop on the back of his head, followed shortly by another on his arm. He glances up behind him, where the cloud cover is growing heavier and sighs. The part of him that wants to crow at being right is dampened by the part of him that really doesn’t want to spend a night soaking wet at the highest point of the preserve. He stands and gathers their packs, bringing them into the lean-to, not wanting to interrupt Stiles’ spell for such a petty victory. He rolls out his own sleeping bag closer to the back wall, meanly leaving Stiles to the position that will get the worst of the rain.

It’s only a few minutes more before Stiles is turning to him and throwing his hands up in victory. “It took!” he shouts, “It’s done!” Derek can see his grin as he steps closer to the firelight. “And joke’s on you, doubting Debbie, because there wasn’t even any—“ Stiles’ last word is cut off as the skies open up and he’s caught in a sudden downpour.

“Rain?” Derek asks mildly, fighting not to laugh at the sight of Stiles sodden and defeated, flinging himself under the measly cover of the lean-to. 

“Shut up, you!” Stiles says, shaking a dripping finger at Derek’s grin, “The important thing is that the spell is done, and now I won’t have to work my ass off for the next few months trying to create some crappy substitute!”

“I’m very happy for you, Stiles.” Derek intones. And he is. There have been times, all too recently, when Stiles has run himself into the ground in order to help the pack with his magic. Tonight’s spell was a rare stroke of luck, allowing Stiles to use a relatively small amount of his own energy to achieve a pretty huge result.

Stiles flips him off casually as he pulls off his now-soaking shirt and drapes it haphazardly across the wood pile in the corner. Derek tries not to stare, even though Stiles’ pale skin makes him easy enough to see in the dim light. “I’m  _freezing!_ ” he declares, “Do you have an extra shirt in your pack?” and he turns around just in time to catch Derek staring. Stiles grins, tilting his hips toward him.

“Or maybe you can think of another way to warm me up?” And Derek wants to, badly. He takes a step toward Stiles, who’s leaning in towards him, but before he reaches out to pull Stiles in –

_**CRACK** _

Thunder claps loudly above them, causing them both to jump, startled.

“Shit” Derek lisps around his fangs, and Stiles leans close to look at him. 

“Dude!” Stiles exclaims, “You just shifted!”

“Clearly.” Snaps Derek.

“Um, why?”

“I didn’t mean to! I just lost control for a second.”

“What, cause of the thunder?” and Derek gives a sharp nod in reply

“Do you, er, want to change back, maybe?” Stiles asks, edging closer

“Can’t yet,” Derek grits out, “Need a minute.”

“O-kay.” Stiles says slowly, “But I don’t need to, like, run and hide or anything, right? Like mentally you’re all ok? I’m safe?” Despite his words, Stiles is moving closer, not farther away, arms reached out cautiously like he’s planning to comfort Derek.

“Don’t be stupid, Stiles.” Derek snaps, “You’re pack. You’re always safe.” He takes a breath, “And yes, I’m fine, I just need a minute.”

“Yeah, I know.” Stiles admits, “I just don’t see you like this much outside of fights or training.” His hand falls to rest on Derek’s shoulder. “It’s weird to see you lose control.” 

Derek takes a few breaths, calming himself down. He thinks he’s just about ready to shift back when there’s a flash of lightning followed quickly by another crack of thunder. Derek startles again, and Stiles barks a loud laugh before slapping a hand over his mouth to muffle the rest. 

“Oh my god,” Stiles says with slightly awed amusement, “you’re afraid of thunder storms!”

“I am not afraid, you moron!” Derek growls, “It’s instinct! And also, yes, maybe I am appropriately wary of camping out on the highest point for miles in the middle of a thunder storm!”

Stiles stifles a giggle. “It’s ok, scaredy-wolf.” Stiles reassures him, mock-seriously, “I won’t tell anyone your big, dark secret.” Derek growls, and Stiles snorts.

“So what do you need to snap out of this?” Stiles asks, and Derek sighs.

“I just need a few minutes to pull myself together, but every time I start to calm down there’s another fucking clap of thunder.” Derek thunks his head against the back wall of the lean-to, trying to get himself under control. Stiles pauses for a moment, his body still leaning into Derek’s. 

“Do you think some sort of distraction would work?”

Derek wrinkles his brow, trying to figure out what Stiles is asking. “What?” he asks, and, oh. Stiles’ hands have drifted to his waist, where they’re toying with the edge of his shirt and brushing against his skin. Oh.

Stiles shrugs like it’s no big deal, but his face says differently as he says lowly, “I just thought, you know, if we got your mind off the storm for a few minutes…” And Derek should say no, he should say stop. He wants Stiles, but not like this. Not when Derek can’t control his damn shifts like some adolescent idiot, when his fangs and his claws could  _hurt_  Stiles. He should say no, but instead he whispers, “Are you sure?” and instead of answering out loud, Stiles kisses him. Right on his wolfy, fanged mouth.

Derek moans, and leans into it – careful not to press to hard with his fangs. He’s not ready (not sure he’ll ever be ready) to trust himself to treat Stiles gently with hands still sharp with claws, so he leans into Stiles with his body, and Stiles leans back, pushing until Derek is pressed into the wall. He breaks the kiss as Stiles pushes up his shirt, and together they pull it off quickly, tossing it to the side.

“I remember what you said about claws and cocks,” Stiles says, as he fumbles with the buttons on Derek’s jeans, and he curses, interrupting himself, “Seriously, Derek? Button-fly? You are such a fucking hipster.” He grins as he succeeds at getting the fly open and pushes Derek’s jeans down, along with his boxer briefs. “Anyway, I remember what you said, so just let me do the work this time.” He makes quick work of his own pants and pushes their hips together. Derek is already mostly hard, and so is Stiles as he wraps long fingers around both of them. Derek groans as he drops his head to Stiles’ shoulder and digs his claws into the wall behind him, the words “this time” ringing in his ears.

Stiles’ hand is too dry for this, and Stiles must feel in, too, because the hand disappears momentarily, before returning slicked with spit. “God, Stiles” Derek moans into his neck, and he digs his claws deeper into the wall as Stiles brings his free hand to cradle the back of Derek’s head. His fingers scratch and lightly, teasingly, pull at his hair. Derek groans and resists the urge to bite at Stiles’ neck. Not like this, not with sharp wolf teeth that could so easily break skin. Instead, he thinks “Next time” like a promise to himself and tells Stiles, “feels good”.

Stiles hums in agreement, his hand working in a steady rhythm between them, until another clap of thunder causes Derek to jerk erratically in Stiles’ hand. That elicits a pretty, broken sigh from Stiles as his hand  squeezes lightly around their cocks. Derek does it again, this time on purpose.

Stiles whispers, “you close?” and Derek nods, frantic, against Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles drops his own cock to focus on Derek, pumping fast and rough. He drops to his knees and takes Derek in his mouth. He bobs a few times, then pulls off, rubbing his spit down Derek’s shaft. He mouths the tip, tongue playing with Derek’s foreskin. Derek watches, reverent, and aching to touch. He focuses on keeping his claws tightly dug into the wall as he watches Stiles tease him with his lips and his tongue, his hand pumping steadily the whole while, until -

“Stiles,” Derek gasps, “I’m gonna –“ And Stiles grins up at him and says, “Go on, then. Come for me.” And Derek does, his come landing hot on Stiles’ face and chest, and Stiles fucking  _basks_  in it. He brings a hand to his face, wiping off some of the mess Derek had made there, and brings it to his own cock. He jerks himself furiously, leaning his cheek against Derek’s hip and wrapping his free hand around Derek’s thigh.

Derek watches as he waits for his breath to come back to him, and when it does, he finds that his claws and fangs have receded, too. He brings a fully human hand to Stiles’ face and gently tilts it up towards his. Stiles looks at him, his mouth wanton and hanging open, and with a gasp he comes.

He takes a few moments to enjoy his afterglow, before standing and saying, “I know that somewhere around here I have a water bottle and some toilet paper to get us cleaned up.” And then Derek has to catch him as he trips over his pants, still bunched around his ankles.

They face each other as Stiles rights himself in Derek’s arms, and Derek smiles, and Stiles smiles, and Derek thinks they must look like two loons, grinning at each other with their pants around their ankles, and he figures that the moment is already unbearably cheesy, so he rolls with it and whispers, “hi”, and Stiles grins even wider, whispering back, “hi” and then they’re kissing and this time it’s all blunt human teeth and soft human lips, and it’s  _perfect_  until Stiles brings up his hand to hold Derek’s neck and Derek breaks the kiss with a laugh.

“What?” Stiles asks, laughter in his voice, and Derek replies, “You just wiped your sploodge on the back of my neck.”

“Oh, and what?” Stiles teases, “You don’t think that’s hot?”

“I think it’s gotten cold.” Derek says pointedly, “and that makes it pretty disgusting, actually.” And that makes Stiles snort. Loudly.

“I’d better go see about cleanup supplies after all.”

“Just pull up your pants first, this time.” Derek suggests, “Or take them off completely.”

Stiles opts for the latter, and throws Derek an exaggerated wink before bending down to dig through their packs. He throws in a butt-wiggle before he stands up, water and T.P. in hand.

At Stiles’ suggestion, they zip the sleeping bags together like two halves of a great big sleeping bag, and Derek has to admit that it’s surprisingly comfy.

“Alright, I admit it.” Stiles says as they lay together, feet tangled at the bottom of the sleeping bag. “You were right and I was wrong, you don’t have a knot in any form.”

Derek shoves him (he would shove harder, but he’s sleepy) and says, “Asshole. And of course I was right about what goes on with my own fucking body.”

 “I’m not gonna say I’m not disappointed,” Stiles sighs theatrically, continuing over Derek’s yelped “What!?”, “but don’t worry, cause I like you anyway.”

“Now I’m not sure I like you, though,” Derek grumbles, “No matter what weird stuff your dick does or does not do.”

“Oh, my dick does plenty of weird stuff.” Stiles says, waggling his eyebrows, and Derek rolls his eyes and kisses him again. Apparently it’s the only way to make him shut up.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr! [Wheee!](http://everythingisshwarma.tumblr.com/)


End file.
